Blackmail is a delicate matter
by medcat
Summary: This story is by Karasik. Even the geniuses of deduction catch colds sometimes, and sometimes become especially unbearable. It's a good thing if one has someone on whom to call for help. Written for the "Day of the Rabbit" project in the Sherlock BBC comm. Yes, there'll be a rabbit, but at the very end.


Translator's note: Originally written in Russian by Karasik, and posted to snapetales dot ru in 2012. The author has kindly given me permission to translate and post.

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><p>"Ah, is it possible that we have finally returned home?" John inquired sarcastically, stumbling into the room and apparently addressing the cozy emptiness of their flat, and definitely not his equally muddy and wet flatmate and colleague. "And we even returned alive...That cannot fail to make one happy," he continued his monologue, wringing his jacket directly onto the doormat. It seemed that the involuntary fall into the Thames did not pass without consequences to his clothing.<p>

Sherlock apparently wanted to make some sort of an answer, but the only sound he managed to emit was an "Achoo!" The detective, not troubling himself to pull off his completely soaked coat, splashed his way towards the bathroom, leaving a wet line of footprints behind him.

"Sherlock!" John called after him, in hopes of pulling the precious coat off the detective and hanging it up to dry, but the bathroom door meaningfully slammed shut directly in front of John's face.

The doctor sighed as he usually did and plopped down onto the floor in front of the locked door, beforehand pulling off as many of his wet things as his natural modesty would allow. And since it allowed him relatively much, he was sitting there clad in only his briefs, considering whether to take them off too, when Sherlock, still in the never-changing coat (by the way, not paying the least bit of attention to the almost naked John near the bathroom door), came out of the bathroom, and, with another loud "Achoo!", headed to the living room. It didn't look like Holmes managed to even take a hot shower during the very short time while John was undressing.

"Hey, Sherlock! You should at the very least take off your wet things!" John attempted to be indignant, although realizing the utter uselessness of his remarks, but persisting nonetheless, and he was not wrong: the detective only waved his hand in John's direction, not troubling himself to answer such a ludicrous suggestion, and plopped right onto his favourite sofa.

It seemed that Holmes didn't even notice that he was soaked through. With an irritated expression on his face, he was rapidly texting somebody, probably explaining the outcome of today's case (how his phone remained in working condition after spending such a long time in the water, along with its owner, remained a complete mystery). John decided for once in his life not to argue with Sherlock, and, with a heavy sigh, got up from the cold floor and strolled into the bathroom, where Holmes apparently only washed his face and rinsed the river mud from his hands, with the most natural goal in the world-to take a hot shower.

Having finished his shower, John, content and feeling a pleasant ache deep in his bones after an adrenaline-filled day, headed to his bedroom. Sauntering past Holmes, who was still busily texting somebody, he once more reminded Holmes about the necessity of changing clothes and taking a shower, but the detective, as usual, was involved in his work and ignored the solicitous doctor's admonitions. John could do nothing else besides going up to his bedroom.

The morning didn't foreshadow anything unusual: John opened his eyes (for the first time in forever not from the annoying scraping of the violin at 3 am and not even from yet another demand of Sherlock's to get up immediately and to rush somewhere right away), but simply from a ray of the sun that was caressing his cheek. After all, today is Sunday, and any self-respecting Englishman has a right to sleep in as long as his heart desires. John stretched, considering what he could cook for breakfast. And then he jumped up sharply. Stop! How is it possible that neither the violin woke him up, nor did Holmes, bored after yet another successfully concluded case?! Something was wrong!

Something was definitely wrong about all this. John, wearing only his pajama pants, and barefoot, rushed downstairs. As one should have expected-something awful has happened. Well, almost. Sherlock, still wearing that ill-starred coat, was curled up on the sofa. He was shaking all over, which the experienced doctor's eye noticed at once. John laid his palm on the great detective's forehead: wow, his temperature must be almost forty degrees! What else could one expect, if one goes to sleep in clothing completely soaked in the Thames' icy water!

"Oh, Sherlock," groaned John, his mind already picturing all the horrors awaiting him, Doctor Watson, in caring for a patient who is so unused to following medical instructions.

Sherlock apparently woke up. He turned over onto his back, opened his eyes, and moaned, "John…", which, mentally deciphered by John, must have meant something like "Help me get undressed and into bed!" Of course, only in John's mind. Sherlock himself more likely meant "Give me my mobile phone and laptop". Watson, just in case, casually remarked, "Absolutely no texting and no internet, until you get well", and made another attempt to pull the still-damp overcoat off the chilled detective.

It took more than one attempt, but he finally succeeded. He even managed to compel Sherlock to get into his bedroom. There, he helped the detective change into pajamas and bundle up in the pink fluffy (where Sherlock got that item from, John had no idea and didn't want to know) blanket. But when it came to the thermometer, the patient protested, with what little strength he had left.

"Oh no! I'm not ill! I still need to go see Lestrade! Achoo!" such an obvious ending to the tirade spoke for itself.

John shook his head and nonetheless managed to stick the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. He himself, having remembered that he was still barefoot and clad only in his pajama bottoms, quickly dashed to his room and got dressed (the last thing he needed was catching a cold along with Sherlock). But when he returned, the thermometer was no longer there. Neither was the consulting detective himself. Watson found him near the doorway, sitting on the floor, dressed only in his pajamas and concentrating on trying to tie the shoelaces on his boots.

"Sherlock, stop acting like a child!" the doctor protested. "You won't be able to get far in this condition. Lestrade will just have to wait, get back in bed, quickly!" As he said that phrase, John suddenly felt like a stern governess from the last century. Although, of course, his charge was far too old for any attempts at bringing-up. Alas, the pedagogical science had obviously utterly failed in this case.

"Sherlock," John raised his voice, starting to lose his temper. "Now!"

The detective stared at him with glazed-over eyes, seemingly having difficulty comprehending who he was and how he came to be here. But for some reason, he suddenly got up and obediently followed John back to the bedroom. And even agreed to accept the thermometer once again. The temperature, as Dr. Watson had expected, was high.

"Well then, Sherlock," John began calmly, "you have a typical case of an acute upper respiratory infection. You need to rest and to take medication for a couple of days, and you'll be as good as new."

"No, I refuse," Holmes objected with such vehemence, that John was too taken aback to understand what this was about.

"Huh?"

"Medications. They have too many contraindications," Sherlock declared with a challenge in his voice. "There," he glanced towards the aspirin, which John had prudently placed on the nightstand, "Headache, nausea, do not take during pregnancy!" enumerated Sherlock, as if the last argument could possibly carry any weight in his case.

John started thinking: to talk Sherlock Holmes into doing something that's not to his liking is very difficult, not to say impossible. John, at a temporary impasse from the current situation, decided to choose to call a friend. Or more precisely, his sister.

"Harry, if you have a genius in your bed, who refuses to listen to you and violates all your instructions, what would you do?" John began, but having realized from the pause that fell that his phrasing turned out to be more than ambivalent, hastened to clarify. "I mean, Sherlock, my flatmate, is ill and refuses to take any medicine. He does not respond to my reasons and explanations."

"Ah, I see," Harry drawled on the other end of the line, sounding slightly disappointed. "I've already come up with a couple of good ideas, but in that kind of situation I'm not really sure what to say. Maybe you could try to sneak the tablets in to him somehow?"

"I doubt he'd fall for such a trick," John sighed heavily.

He didn't want to risk an attempt: Sherlock never ate much even when he was healthy, and now when he's ill, he would definitely suspect something. In any case though, he needs to eat, John decided, heading to the kitchen to cook the best medicine of all times and peoples-chicken broth.

The doctor, with difficulty, resisted the temptation of mixing a couple of easily dissolved tablets in with the food, but he stopped himself in time, realizing that it will take no small effort to feed Sherlock as it is, and if any tablets are mixed in, Sherlock would likely detect them somehow and refuse to eat altogether.

The detective reclined on a stack of pillows, looking like he was dying. He was watching John's movements through half-closed lids, like Socrates watching the man bringing him a chalice of hemlock.

"Sherlock, this is just broth!" muttered John, carefully placing the tray with the hot liquid onto the nightstand, simultaneously, accompanied by Sherlock's outraged cry, sweeping off the nightstand books and other small things the detective needed, which had been piled up on it.

"Eat," John insisted, trying to spoon-feed Sherlock, while the latter desperately resisted, not wanting to open his mouth.

"Sherlock, resistance is futile, and I will get this stupid broth into you, whether you want it or not, " John hissed ominously, trying to force open the detective's clenched lips. "And why is it that you refuse medical treatment, Sherlock?" John resignedly dropped his head onto his arms.

"I don't want to," authoritatively declared Holmes, as if that explained everything.

"All right, all right," worn out from the arguing, John left the room, pretending to be resigned to his defeat. But only to call for help the person who had a far more extensive experience of living together with Holmes Junior-Holmes Senior.

"Mycroft, good afternoon," John began, hoping that he didn't pull the British government away from some important diplomatic talks. "Sherlock is ill...Yeah...Yeah, he's refusing... Oh, really?" John sighed in relief, when he heard that the reinforcements are on the way to help him. "Thanks, I'll be waiting for you."

"Oh no, no, no!" was heard from behind the door of the next room. The detective must have heard the entire conversation. John hastily returned to the bedroom, only to see Sherlock, with a look of despair on his face, cover his head with the blanket. "John, this is an absolute betrayal! You have given me over, absolutely helpless, to my sworn enemy!" the accusing phrases sounded somehow not grave enough, especially considering the fact that they were slightly muted by the fluffy blanket. "How could you, John? Is this how friends behave?" a nose and one grey eye peeked out from the edge of the blanket, the eye staring at Dr Watson accusingly.

"Sherlock, if you behaved properly and agreed to take the medication, none of this would have happened," remarked John with a distinct feeling of satisfaction.

The nose disappeared under the blanket again. Sherlock had obviously made the decision to be silent and to maintain the defenses to the last.

John was thinking over a new military strategy, when the door creaked and someone obviously heavier than Mrs Hudson sauntered up the stairs. Holmes Sr himself with the usual self-assured smile on his face sailed into the room.

"Oh, our Sherlock decided to sulk. You shouldn't have. Do you remember what happened last time?" Holmes Sr bent down, coming level with the blanket, which gave a small shiver. The blanket wriggled in an annoyed manner, but remained silent.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, you don't seem to learn anything from your life experiences," Mycroft continued his lecture. "And why is that you, like a good boy, refuse to take your medication and get some proper sleep?"

"The medication interferes with my thinking!" a half-muted indignant cry sounded from somewhere inside the depths of the blanket.

"Well, so you won't think for a day or two, but you'll get well quickly, and then-you can think as much as you want! Come now, say, 'A-a-ah!' " Mycroft took the pills from the nightstand and dropped them into a glass of water, which stood nearby.

"No!" Sherlock yelled desperately.

"Sherlock, do not force me to resort to extreme measures, " Holmes Sr shook his head, "maybe I should show John something, do you think? Or even better, I could ask him to post it directly to his blog. As a public post, Sherlock," sang out Mycroft above the spot where he supposed his brother's ear must be located under the layers of the blanket.

A tousled curly head suddenly appeared from under the folds of cloth. Sherlock's expression was one of utter despair.

"You wouldn't do that!"

"You know me-I will", declared Holmes Sr with a completely serious expression.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice had a perceptible tremor, "You would. All right," he disentangled himself from the blanket and leaned back against the pillows, crossing his arms on his chest, "give me your medications. I agree! But you'll have to destroy it!"

"No, Sherlock, otherwise how would I be able to blackmail you in the future?" Mycroft chuckled at such a ludicrous suggestion from his brother. "But, I give you my word, as long as you behave, nobody will see it. Moreover, you are hardly in a position to make any demands!"

"Hm", Sherlock finally swallowed the offered medicines, and, sulkily sniffling, hid himself under the blanket again, and, seemingly, even fell asleep.

John, grateful beyond words to Holmes Sr, quietly shut the bedroom door behind them, following the pleased Mycroft out.

"What was the item you were talking about?" the intrigued doctor couldn't help asking.

"Oh," smiled Mycroft, "I did promise Sherlock that I wouldn't show it to anybody, as long as he behaved, and I keep my word. I can only tell you that it is a somewhat…" here Mycroft winked at John with a smile, "damaging to his reputation a photo from the family archive. Unfortunately, I am very busy, and must be on my way."

Having gotten into his car, Mycroft pulled out a worn square of cardboard from his jacket pocket, and, lovingly smoothing it, gazed at the familiar photograph. In the photo, a boy about the age of five, dressed in a rabbit suit, with black locks peeking out from underneath a rabbit-eared hat, was sitting under the Christmas tree, hugging his present and looking very pleased with himself. Mycroft mentally praised himself once more for managing to steal the photo from the family album in time, and, with a dreamy smile, carefully put his instrument of blackmail, which had never yet failed him, back into his pocket.


End file.
